on her face.
“Get out of here,” he said to Robert, keeping his full attention on Layla, half-afraid of what she might do next. “Leave her bag in the room and I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m not—”
“I honestly am a family friend. I know her middle name and everything.”
“What is it?” Robert asked through his fingers, and Justin had to give him points for not abandoning her.
“Sunshine. Layla Sunshine Taylor.”
“Brothers?”
“Twins—Eric and Derek. Sister is Sam. Formerly Belle Blue, from the song ‘Bell Bottom Blues.’ She renamed herself when she was five because the kids called her Ding Dong.”
“Good enough.” Robert turned and walked away without another word, still holding his nose.
“You didn’t have to tell him all that,” Layla said as Justin put a hand under her arm and steered her the last few feet to the Challenger—an adequate car, but a poor substitute for his classic Firebird, destroyed in a wreck last year.
“I think he already knew.” Justin held the door open and she got into the passenger seat, then carefully arranged her coat over her knees. “Where do you live?”
She muttered an address on Bannock Drive. He made her repeat it, since it wouldn’t be cool to drag her up the sidewalk of someone else’s house. Then he asked for her keys.
“Why?”
“So that you have them when we get to your place.”
With a deep sigh she spilled the contents of her purse onto her lap, then pulled the keys out of the jumble. She slapped them into his outstretched hand before haphazardly shoving stuff back into her bag.
Justin closed the door and walked around to his side of the car. By the time he got the beast started, Layla was leaning against the leather headrest and her eyes were closed. Good. He hoped she stayed that way during the entire trip.
It wasn’t to be. She got sick again at the top of the grade leading down to Carson City, where, thankfully, it wasn’t snowing. She was still a bit green when she collapsed back into the passenger seat and fell asleep.
Justin couldn’t say he was unhappy about that because he wanted to focus on the road, not on his passenger. Nearly a year ago, he’d had a close call on this road, when fellow employees at his hotel who were involved in the drug trade erroneously deduced that he was a narc, due to his association with his current brother-in-law, a drug task force member. About a mile past the summit, Justin had been hit from behind, and his beloved classic Firebird sent plummeting down the ravine. He was so damned lucky to be alive, and he’d never felt the same driving this road. What’s more, he missed his car.
Forty-five minutes after passing the spot where his car had been wrecked, Justin pulled into Layla’s drive. He roused her and helped her out, then put an arm around her as they made their way through the slushy spring snow to the front door. Not a bad place. In fact, it was very much what he’d expected from Layla. An efficient box of a house, with neat little shutters, a sturdy fence in front, a no-nonsense white-and-navy-blue color scheme. The bushes were all trimmed into submission, even though it was barely spring.
There were only three keys on the ring, so he had her inside within a matter of seconds. Once the door was closed, she attempted to focus on him. The way her forehead wrinkled, it must have hurt.
She started to say something, but got only as far as opening her mouth before she shrugged out of her coat, letting it fall behind her in a heap. Then she headed down the hall.
Justin hesitated, then followed. By the time he reached her bedroom, she was sprawled on her stomach over the purple duvet on her bed. It looked like something that would need an expensive dry-cleaning if she were ill again, so Justin carefully peeled it back and rolled her onto her side on the sheets.
He stood for a moment then, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, staring down at her. He hadn’t seen her in several years—not since her father had sold the house down the street from his family’s, shortly after Justin graduated high school. She’d put on some weight. In a good way. And her straight dark hair was longer. But she was still Layla. Only not so perfect now. He hoped she could deal with it.
With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he set her keys on the dresser and headed out the bedroom door.
LAYLA©DIDN’T©WANT©TO wake up.
Her head was pounding. Her mouth was dry. So dry! And why was she drowning in a sense of impending doom?
The memories started to drift in, each more cringe-worthy than the one before. Had she thrown up outside the hotel?
Worse than that, had Justin been there?
And then the biggie hit her. Robert. Robert and Melinda. Layla’s insides roiled as a wave of depression mixed with pain, betrayal and disgust washed over her.
“You need anything?”
Layla shrieked at the unexpected masculine voice, and scrambled to her knees, ready to defend herself with the pillow she’d grabbed. “Justin!”
“Yeah. Me.”
She lowered the pillow and sat back on her heels as a surge of nausea welled up. But her stomach was too empty to do anything about it.
“Let me get you some aspirin. Where do you keep it?”
She simply stared at him. “Why are you here?”
“You can’t leave a drunk person unattended. Remember what happened to all those rock stars that drowned in their own—”
Layla held up a hand. “Stop. No more.” She dropped her head on the pillow she held in her lap. It made sense, really. Justin had been part of so many of the humiliating moments of her life that perhaps he was on call. He sensed “Layla devastation” and showed up to add to the misery.
“It was too late for Sam to come and stay with you.”
Layla nodded, her head bobbing into the pillow. He had a point. He’d done the safe and logical thing.
“Thank you for bringing me home.” She vaguely recalled trying to stay in the hotel until she sobered up. And students. She remembered seeing her students. Her stomach flip-flopped at the thought. Hopefully, she hadn’t appeared too out of it. Private schools were not very keen on their staff being seen drunk in public.
“Aspirin?”
Layla lifted her head. “I’ll get it.” She steeled herself for the trauma of going vertical. “What happened to your eye?” Another dim recollection was taking form in her brain.
“You punched Robert when he tried to give you the room key.”
“Did I…punch you, too?” Had all her pent-up frustrations burst forth? Culminating in a brawl?
“No. You accidentally hit me when you fell.”
